


The Ties That Bind

by Aini_NuFire



Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [34]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Angst, Dragon Riders, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, d'Artagnan Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: The musketeers must deal with an assassin leaving a trail of bodies in an attempt to target King Louis’s cousin, Louise, plus Milady’s latest machinations threaten to destroy d’Artagnan and Constance.
Series: Musketeer Dragon Riders [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564573
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue from 2x07 in this fic. Thanks again to 29Pieces for beta reading!

D'Artagnan looked out the frost-tinted window at a blue sky devoid of clouds. The early December chill would burn off as the day went on, but for now, he would need his warmer cloak. He turned from the window and found Constance already holding it out to him. A grin split his face and he leaned in to give her a passionate kiss.

She indulged him for a few moments before pulling back. "Alright now, you're going to be late."

Still grinning madly, d'Artagnan took his cloak and headed out. He threw it over his shoulders as he crossed the dragon compound toward the garrison, the crisp morning air sharp against his nostrils. He decided not to call Ayelet to come with him; he had no immediate duties requiring his dragon anyway so she might as well stay in her nice warm den.

D'Artagnan hissed as his fingers tingled uncomfortably, and he quickly patted down the folds of his cloak for his gloves. Instead, he felt a tiny object tucked into a pocket, and when he reached in to pull it out, he found a small flower and a wooden pin in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. The cold was momentarily forgotten as warmth bloomed in his chest. It was early for Constance to have given him a Christmas gift, but maybe she'd wanted to surprise him. Smiling, he pinned the token to his coat and continued on his way to the garrison.

He arrived just as a carriage loaded with luggage came lumbering through the gate, accompanied by four Musketeer guards. D'Artagnan watched Pierre go open the door of the coach and help a finely dressed woman step down, then escort her to take a seat at the table beneath the captain's office.

Athos strode down the stairs, eyes sharp as he took in the arrivals.

Curious, d'Artagnan made his way over to join the conversation.

"What's wrong?" Athos asked in a low voice as his men moved away from their guest. "Why have you brought her here?"

"We were ambushed on the road," Pierre reported.

"By a gang of men carrying Spanish gold," Christophe added.

Athos nodded like he wasn't surprised. "Spain was never going to stand idly by in the face of an alliance between Sweden and France."

"You mean the princess might still be in danger?" a man interjected. He looked like the princess's attendant.

"There's no need for alarm," Pierre assured him. "We're in Paris now. She'll be perfectly safe."

"Back there I failed," the man went on. "But for you, she would have been killed."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Pierre responded. "You did your best."

"It wasn't enough," he insisted. "If any harm should come to her…"

Pierre put a hand on his shoulder. " _Don't_ worry. You're both under the Musketeers' protection now."

The man inhaled sharply like he still wanted to protest, but then he nodded and turned to go back to his mistress.

"You should get some rest," Athos told his men. "We'll take the princess to the archbishop." He cocked his head at d'Artagnan. "Get Porthos and Aramis."

D'Artagnan nodded and hurried off. Good thing he hadn't woken Ayelet this morning, as she hated being left behind on missions that didn't involve dragons.

.o.0.o.

Rochefort sat in the chair of his office, idly staring at yet another report. He cared little for paperwork, but it was necessary to maintain his station of trust as the King's official witch hunter and captain of the Palace Guard.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in, de Barville," he said blandly, already knowing who it was.

A plump, smarmy looking man strode in with an ingenious smile on his face. Rochefort set the piece of paper down and lolled his head up to look at him.

The man faltered slightly. "You sent for me?"

Rochefort waited for just a beat before swinging out of his chair. "The King's cousin, Princess Louise of Mantua, is betrothed to the Swedish Crown Prince," he said, making his way around the desk and toward one of the many shelving units containing rolled up scrolls. "The Musketeers are escorting her to Paris as we speak."

"And you wish me to take charge of her security when she arrives in Paris?" de Barville asked dubiously.

Rochefort ignored him. "Do you remember this?" he asked, scanning the various records for one in particular. "Ah." He picked up the scroll and removed its binding, casting the tie carelessly on the floor as he handed the parchment to de Barville. "It's a record of the King's Council's decision to refuse the ransom demanded by Spain for my release…from imprisonment."

De Barville stiffened as he held the document, expression flickering with alarm. "Now, you must understand, the issue was a complex one."

"The Council betrayed me. You betrayed me. Why?"

"My orders came from Cardinal Richelieu himself," de Barville answered. "It was his express wish that no ransom be paid."

Rochefort regarded him for a moment. "Why would he abandon a loyal servant in such a fashion?" he asked calmly, stalking closer.

De Barville blanched. "Um, well, the Cardinal felt that you were…perhaps…"

Rochefort raised his brows pointedly in indication he should continue.

"Not entirely…" De Barville's mouth moved soundlessly as he sputtered for an answer. "Of sound mind," he finally finished.

Rochefort gazed back at him blandly. "I spent five years in that hellhole."

"What does this have to do with Princess Louise of Mantua?" de Barville asked as he went to place the document back on the shelf.

"I wanted you to be the first to know," Rochefort said, moving to block him against the unit. "Her marriage will not be going ahead after all."

"Does the King know?" the man exclaimed. "I must raise it at his Council meeting. A strengthened alliance between France and Sweden is vital."

Rochefort moved his hands behind his back and drew a concealed dagger from under his sleeve. "Unfortunately, plans have changed."

He thrust the blade up between de Barville's ribs and into his heart. The man's breath hitched and he didn't cry out until Rochefort yanked the dagger back out. Then with a dying gurgle, he fell to the floor, knocking over several documents from their resting place. Rochefort raised his gaze toward Heaven, breathing deeply as de Barville's own breath eked out in one final exhalation.

Rochefort sheathed his blade back in its hidden place, then went to open the secret passage in one of the walls. Inside already lay the materials he'd prepared for this—tarpaulin and rope. He retrieved the items and wrapped up de Barville's body. Then he dragged it out through the secret tunnel that led to a secluded spot on the edge of the palace. Just inside the tunnel's opening, Rochefort dropped de Barville's corpse next to another wrapped up body—that of the witch hunter Treville had called in to assist Rochefort. He then made his way along the edge of the palace to the dragon compound to summon his dragon's assistance.

Falkor was lounging in the sun, as he did most of the time these days. Rochefort scanned the compound to make sure Bonacieux and his daughter weren't around as he strode toward his dragon.

"I need you to dispose of a body," he said without preamble.

Falkor lolled a glowering gaze up at him.

Rochefort scowled. "Your own comforts here depend on my continued status, so you had better do your part in keeping us where we stand."

Falkor snorted but rose to his feet grudgingly.

Rochefort led him out of the compound on foot, out back across the fields and woodland along the palace wall to the tunnel entrance. There, Rochefort paused to look around and make sure they hadn't been followed, then hauled the two bodies out onto a patch of dirt cleared of any underbrush.

Falkor shuffled over and drew his head up. His belly began to glow and Rochefort stepped around to stand behind him. The dragon unleashed a burst of fire over the bodies, maintaining the stream until all evidence of them had been incinerated and all that was left were a few charred pieces of bone.

Rochefort waited for the flames to die down and the embers to extinguish. Then he gazed down blandly at what remained and kicked a piece of bone into the bushes.

He canted his head at Falkor in thanks. His dragon let out a small snort and turned to hobble his way back to the compound where he could continue to enjoy his lazy life. Meanwhile, Rochefort had more work to do.

.o.0.o.

The musketeers escorted Princess Louise to the archbishop and remained to stand guard for the ceremonial reception in the main hall. Choristers sang softly in the stands as the princess knelt on a cushioned footstool before the archbishop.

D'Artagnan leaned toward Athos. "Shouldn't the King be here for this?" he whispered.

Athos sighed. "He refuses to leave the palace."

D'Artagnan grimaced. Right.

"Bless this forthcoming marriage, oh, Lord, with peace and happiness," the archbishop intoned. "And may the womb of your humble servant Louise be fruitful. In the name of God, amen." He finished, blessing her with the sign of the cross.

"Amen," Louise said softly and leaned forward to kiss the ring on the archbishop's outstretched hand.

"Our hopes for the future strength and unity of France rest on the success of your union, my child," he said and reached out to stroke her cheek.

D'Artagnan tried not to fidget. He knew political marriages were common among the nobility, but it still left a sour taste in his mouth. He'd almost lost Constance to a duke before he'd even had the chance to court her. Thankfully God had blessed their union of love instead. Not all were so fortunate.

"I pray my marriage will be happy," Louise said.

"Happiness is a selfish desire," the archbishop rejoined. "You must pray to do your duty."

Louise ducked her gaze, and d'Artagnan's heart went out to her.

After a moment, she started to rise, only to trip with an exclamation. The archbishop reached out to catch her, but a bolt suddenly whizzed through the air and pierced him through the throat. Louise screamed and scrambled backward.

The musketeers surged forward, Athos to grab the princess while Aramis and d'Artagnan rushed to catch the archbishop as he fell. Porthos whipped out his pistol and looked toward where the shot had come from. D'Artagnan saw a hooded figure in the balcony, backlit by the sun for a brief moment before he bolted.

D'Artagnan tore off down a side wing to go after him. The corridors were clear and he drew his pistol as he ran at full speed. But when he barreled out the open church door onto the landing, all he saw was people milling about in the streets, evidently undisturbed by any commotion. He scanned them for signs of someone running away or moving quickly, but everyone was moving at a casual pace.

Turning to go back inside, d'Artagnan holstered his pistol and bent down to pick up the discarded cloak lying in the foyer. The assassin could have slipped casually into the crowd and not drawn a second glance. D'Artagnan could have even roved his gaze over him without knowing it.

Clenching his fists and bunching up the cloak, he turned to head back to the main hall. This was the second attempt on the princess's life, a brazen one at that, and only by sheer luck had she escaped death this time. But the archbishop had been collateral.

The King was going to be very upset…


	2. Chapter 2

D'Artagnan stood with Athos and Porthos on the balcony as Aramis knelt on the floor and lined up the shot with the crossbow the assassin had left behind.

"Good vantage point," the marksman confirmed. "Well concealed, an all-round view, and easy access to an escape route." He stood up and turned around to lean against the railing. "The killer knew what he was doing. This was planned well in advance."

Planned in case the attack on the road failed? Or planned by another party altogether? Either way, the assassin hadn't succeeded.

"Why a crossbow?" d'Artagnan asked, taking the weapon and examining it himself.

"From this distance, it's more accurate than a musket," Aramis replied. "And easier to conceal."

"Outstanding work, musketeers!" a scathing voice shouted from below.

D'Artagnan turned around and bit back an eye roll at Rochefort standing there with a bunch of palace guards.

"A man of God slain under your very noses!"

With a sigh, Athos straightened and began to make his way back down to the first level. The others followed.

A priest was administering last rites and Rochefort had knelt beside the archbishop in a show of respect when the musketeers reached them. Poor Louise was kneeling off to the side, lips moving in soundless prayer.

"And you let the killer escape," Rochefort said disparagingly, rising to his feet.

"If the princess hadn't slipped, she'd be dead now," Athos said, keeping his voice low in contrast. "She was the target. Someone is determined to stop this marriage."

"The princess cannot stay at the archbishop's as planned," Rochefort declared. "She must be escorted to the Louvre for her own safety. Assuming you can manage such a simple task…without losing her." He shot them all another glower of disdain before heading out.

The four of them exchanged looks of irritation. Rochefort was captain of the Palace Guard; if he was so worried, why didn't he escort her?

But the musketeers would fulfill their duty.

D'Artagnan turned to where Princess Louise's manservant had ushered her into the choir box.

"Come with us, Your Highness," d'Artagnan said, offering her his hand. "We'll get you somewhere safe."

She reached out to take it and let him draw her to her feet. Her eyes flitted over the archbishop before quickly looking away. Porthos took the lead on their way out, while Aramis and Athos followed behind. Aramis had the assassin's crossbow and Athos had picked up the bolt that'd been extracted from the archbishop's neck. Solemnly, they made their way to the carriage house and ushered the princess into her coach.

There wasn't room for four musketeers to stand on the footstools all around the exterior of the carriage, so even though it wasn't exactly proper, d'Artagnan and Louise's manservant rode in the cab with her while Porthos drove the carriage and Athos and Aramis perched as guards on the outside. D'Artagnan drew the curtains down to cover the windows.

They arrived at the palace without incidence and parked the coach under the carriage wing at a more private and covered entrance.

"It's not a coincidence, is it?" she asked. "This killing, the men who attacked us on the journey. It's me they're after, isn't it?"

"Speculation is pointless," Aramis told her. "There's no need to worry."

"If I am to die, I would rather be prepared."

"No harm will come to you now," d'Artagnan promised.

"This is the safest building in all of France," Aramis added.

Louise looked despondent as they climbed the steps up to the guest apartments. "If only we could have stayed in Mantua, Francesco," she lamented to her servant. "We were happy there. This marriage is my death sentence."

The musketeers had nothing to say to that. Even after Louise was married, the danger would not be over. For as long as Sweden and France tried to have this alliance, Spain would try to destroy it.

They brought her to her guest chambers and left her in the care of some palace guards while servants carted in her belongings. From there, the four musketeers went to see Minister Treville and report what had happened.

"Word's already reached the palace," Treville said without preamble when he opened his office door to allow them admittance. "Rochefort briefed the King personally."

D'Artagnan scowled; of course he had.

"The princess is secure now," Athos said, somehow managing to sound unbothered by it all, though d'Artagnan knew it grated on him too. "We brought these from the scene."

He nodded to Aramis, who set the crossbow on Treville's desk. Athos went to the corner to grab a bowl of water and brought it over, then dipped the blood-tipped bolt in to wash it clean.

He lifted it up to examine it. "Custom-made, best-quality steel, short bodkin, armor piercing. A real assassin's weapon." He dropped the bolt back in the bowl and picked up the end of the crossbow next. "Old-fashioned but deadly. Who still makes weapons like this?"

"There are perhaps half a dozen armorers left in Paris with the necessary skills," Treville replied.

"But only one who'd consider hiring them out to the Spanish," Porthos put in. "A man with a serious grudge against king and country."

Treville sighed. "Boucher."

Porthos raised his eyebrows. "A Huguenot. And a survivor of the siege of La Rochelle."

D'Artagnan hadn't been around for that, but he'd heard the stories. If anyone had a grudge against the Catholic King, it was someone like that.

"And a true artist," Athos commented, admiring the crossbow. "I've a mind to commission a piece myself."

"You know, that might not be a bad idea," Treville said. "How else are we going to tempt him out of hiding?"

Athos canted his head. "I'll make contact." He nodded to d'Artagnan and Aramis. "You two stay with the princess. I won't have Rochefort accuse us of slacking in our duty."

D'Artagnan didn't want that either.

He and Aramis headed back to the princess's guest chambers to check on her. To their dismay, the palace guards were no longer posted outside.

Aramis quickened his stride to the door and raised a hand to knock. "Your Highness, it is the musketeers."

The door was opened by Francesco, and d'Artagnan and Aramis swiftly entered to do a visual check of the room. Everything seemed in order. Princess Louise was standing off to the left.

"Should I be avoiding windows?" she asked.

D'Artagnan walked over and tugged the sheer curtains closed. "As a precaution."

"I thought I was safe here?"

"As safe as you can be anywhere," he conceded.

She moved to sit on the settee situated at the foot of the bed. In the back, Francesco went about unpacking her luggage. D'Artagnan exchanged a look with Aramis in the awkward silence.

"We'll be right outside," Aramis said, bowing out of the room. D'Artagnan followed, closing the door behind him.

"Do you think this Boucher fellow will meet with Athos?" he asked. "If he's the assassin, he has no reason to risk coming to the Musketeer garrison."

Aramis shrugged. "He still has a livelihood to make. Unless the Spanish have paid him so handsomely that he can retire early."

"Except the assassin failed," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"Indeed. Let's hope he doesn't have an equally thorough backup plan in place."

That was a sobering thought.

"It might be safer to drop ceremony and fly the princess to Sweden," he suggested.

"And it may come to that," Aramis agreed.

D'Artagnan wondered which dragon riders would be chosen for that. He didn't particularly relish the idea of flying north when it was already winter.

He brightened then when he caught sight of Constance coming down the hall toward them. "Hey," he greeted. "What are you doing here?"

She smiled in return. "I was visiting the Queen and heard you were guarding the princess. Thought I'd stop and say hello on my way home."

"How is the Queen?" Aramis asked.

Constance faltered. "She's…holding up, under the circumstances," she hedged.

Aramis looked troubled for a moment but then his expression smoothed it away. "The Queen is fortunate to have a friend like you."

Constance blushed slightly, then lowered her voice to almost a whisper. "I wish I could do more. The Queen used to love coming to the dragon compound, but the King has forbidden it." She grimaced with regret.

D'Artagnan reached out to squeeze her arm reassuringly. "What happened with Emilie wasn't your fault. The King doesn't hold you responsible."

"No, he holds the Queen responsible. And, well…Milady."

D'Artagnan winced. Right. Even though Milady hadn't even been involved in that incident. "Things will be better once we stop her."

"I hope you're right."

D'Artagnan glanced at Aramis, then took Constance's arm and led her halfway down the hall for a modicum of privacy. He wanted to thank her for the gift she'd left in his cloak that morning, yet just as he opened his mouth to do so, he suddenly swung his arm up and backhanded Constance across the face so hard she reeled backward into the wall.

D'Artagnan stared in shock and horror as Constance raised her head, eyes equally blown wide. Blood was beading on her lip.

He took a step toward her, not knowing what to say, but then he was drawing his sword and he didn't know why. "Constance!" he screamed as he swung his blade at her.

She ducked and went crashing against a piece of furniture.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis bellowed, running toward them.

D'Artagnan tried to stop, tried to drop his sword, but his fingers were clenched tightly around the hilt and his body wouldn't respond as he bore down on his wife. She screamed as she dodged another clumsy swipe of steel.

"No!" d'Artagnan yelled. What was happening?

Aramis swooped in and threw his blade up to catch d'Artagnan's, the two swords locking at the hilt. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't know! I can't stop!" Then to his horror, he was wrenching his blade free and taking a swing at Aramis.

Aramis swiftly parried and riposted, forcing d'Artagnan back a few steps, away from Constance. D'Artagnan could only watch helplessly, his body acting without his consent as his arm wielded his blade against his friend.

Aramis caught d'Artagnan's sword again and with a deft twist, sent it spiraling from his grip. Then he dropped his own blade and darted in, throwing his arms around d'Artagnan in a restraining hold.

Clomping boots heralded the arrival of the palace guards, who had come at the sound of the ruckus. D'Artagnan noticed Louise had opened her door and was staring out at them.

"Guard the princess!" Aramis snapped at the guards, then bodily dragged d'Artagnan into a nearby room out of sight.

Constance followed, holding a hand to her bleeding lip.

"Constance, I am so sorry," d'Artagnan gushed. "I don't know what happened. I would never hurt you!"

But he had, oh god, he had…

"Are you done?" Aramis asked tautly, his arms still tight around d'Artagnan's.

"I- I don't know," he said brokenly. He didn't know how he'd started, or why. And he hadn't been able to stop.

But he wasn't struggling in Aramis's hold, so the marksman slowly began to release him. For a moment, it seemed like he was back to normal, but then to d'Artagnan's increasing horror, his hand went to draw his main gauche next. He had no control, no will…

Aramis stepped back in and threw a sucker-punch so hard that d'Artagnan was instantly knocked out.


	3. Chapter 3

D'Artagnan woke to a throbbing in his jaw and a crick in his neck from being upright with his head slumped down. His eyelids fluttered open to the sight of his own lap and a scratched up wooden floor. Soft voices murmured from off to the side.

"He's coming around," someone said, and the voices went silent.

D'Artagnan shifted in his seat, only to find his arms were pulled back and coarse rope was bound around his wrists. He jerked his head up as adrenaline surged through him, yet he found himself not in the hands of some enemy, but tied up in one of the garrison's spare rooms with his friends standing around him. Confusion flitted through him for a split second…until he caught sight of Constance standing a few feet behind the others. Her lip was swollen and crusted with dried blood.

Everything came flooding back and d'Artagnan reeled in renewed horror at what he'd done. He'd struck the woman he loved, had drawn his sword and tried to kill her. Aramis had to punch him out just to stop him.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos prompted tentatively.

He flicked his gaze around at their guarded expressions, then back at Constance. "I am so sorry," he gushed. "I didn't mean it, I would never…" The words spilled rapidly from his lips just as they had in the palace, but what good were they? They couldn't erase the fact that he _had_ done this.

He turned his gaze back to his brothers, silently pleading for them to understand. "It wasn't me!"

"We know," Aramis said gently. "Someone else was controlling you."

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow. "But who? And how?"

Porthos snorted. "Who else?"

D'Artagnan's blood ran cold. "Milady," he breathed.

Of course, she'd targeted the others already; it was his turn. But of all the things to curse him with…

"You have to find a way to reverse it!" he exclaimed.

"Well, are you still feelin'…" Porthos gestured vaguely, "murderous?"

"No! And I wasn't before. It was like my body didn't belong to me, like I was a puppet. I didn't _want_ to hurt Constance!"

Everyone exchanged grim looks.

"We still have no idea where to find Milady," Athos spoke up. "And the witch hunter Treville called in to assist in the search has gone missing."

"But you could find her," d'Artagnan pressed. "Like before, when she stole Porthos's eyes."

Athos looked away, his shoulders stiff. "She's been increasing the severity of her attacks, inflicting more damage before she backs off again." He flicked a glance at Aramis briefly before turning away again. "I'm afraid it won't be that easy this time."

D'Artagnan felt like his entire world was crumbling around him. Milady was sadistic; she wouldn't grow bored with her spell until she'd wrought the most destruction possible—and that meant d'Artagnan severely hurting someone. Maybe even killing Constance.

"There is also an assassin on the loose," Athos reluctantly added, and he cast d'Artagnan a regretful look. "I'm afraid that takes precedence at the moment. But I will send word to Treville and perhaps he can get the King to have Rochefort focus on Milady."

D'Artagnan's heart cracked as despair drove fissures through it. He didn't trust Rochefort to do anything concerning the witch. "So I guess you have to lock me up in the meantime." However long that would be.

Constance's eyes widened and she looked ready to protest, but Aramis spoke first.

"The garrison will do. We have no intention of throwing you in a dank cell somewhere." He reached out and gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder. "We _will_ resolve this."

D'Artagnan swallowed hard. He wanted to believe them. They had, after all, seen Porthos and Aramis restored after Milady's torments.

So he managed a jerky nod and tested his bonds. "You're sure these are secure?"

Aramis grimaced. "Yes."

"Maybe you should make them tighter."

"And risk doing you physical harm by cutting off circulation? No."

"Maybe one of us should stay," Porthos suggested.

"You're needed elsewhere," Constance finally spoke up. "I'll stay with him."

D'Artagnan's eyes blew wide. "No!"

Constance lifted her chin, her staunchness marred by the horrific mark on her face. "You're my husband."

"It's not safe," he insisted.

"You're not going anywhere like that," she pointed out, then turned to the others. "It's alright, go."

The three of them exchanged hesitant looks, obviously reluctant to leave. But duty came first, and so they slowly filed out.

D'Artagnan's pulse kicked up now that he was alone with Constance. Even though he was securely bound to the chair, he couldn't bear the thought of possibly hurting her again. He couldn't even stand to look at her, to look at the evidence of his own brutality on her face.

"I know it wasn't you," she said, taking a step closer.

"Please," he bit out. "Don't. I don't want to hurt you."

"D'Artagnan…"

" _No_. Not until…not until the others fix this."

If there even was a way to fix it.

Constance faltered, but then backed away. She didn't leave the room, though. Six feet between them but it might as well have been a gaping abyss.

.o.0.o.

For all the guilt and anguish that had been readily visible on d'Artagnan's face, Athos was wracked with the same over his ex-wife's latest attack. She always went for the cruel blows, hurting Constance by d'Artagnan's hand. Even if she reversed the curse, a wound had been opened up between the couple, one that could fester long after the magical influence had been removed.

But Athos didn't even have time to help d'Artagnan, nor could he spare anyone else to at the moment, and that grated him too.

"Athos!" Pierre called, coming up to him. "A man called Boucher is here to see you."

Athos looked toward the gate where a balding man dressed in black and leaning on a cane was waiting. He nodded to Pierre to escort him in, then turned to Aramis.

"Go back to the palace to guard the princess. And tell Treville what's happened to d'Artagnan."

Aramis nodded and headed off.

"Monsieur Boucher," Athos greeted as the man approached. "I am Athos."

"I know who you are," the man replied. "I make it my business to know the finest swordsmen in France." He flashed a smug smile between Athos and Porthos. "So, what can I do for you?"

"This way," Athos said, turning to lead him up the stairs to his office. Once he entered, he gestured for Boucher to come in and pointed toward his desk where he'd left the crossbow sitting.

The armorer's eyes lit up and he quickened his hobbling pace toward it.

"Recognize that?" Athos asked.

"Yes," he said, delighted as he held it. "This is my work."

Porthos walked over and held up the bolt. "And this?"

Boucher set the crossbow down and took it next. He chuckled as he eased himself down into Athos's chair. "Also mine. You don't find craftsmanship like this every day."

"I'm sure the archbishop was very appreciative," Porthos said sardonically and snatched the bolt back.

"What are you talking about?" Boucher asked in confusion. "Where did you find this bolt?"

"In the archbishop's _throat_."

Boucher shifted nervously. "I had nothing to do with that," he proclaimed.

"You?" Athos scoffed. "A known dissenter with a grudge against the Catholic Church and a personal connection to the murder weapon—you're the last person we'd think of."

"I make weapons. I don't use them," he insisted.

"Then _who_ did you make this for?" Porthos asked, pointing to said weapon.

Boucher leaned back in the chair. "That's confidential."

"You've just admitted making the weapon that killed the archbishop," Athos pointed out.

"So here's our problem," Porthos went on. "Someone has to die for the archbishop's murder. And right now…we have no other suspects."

"All right, wait!" Boucher exclaimed, throwing his hands up. He slowly pushed himself out of the chair and picked up the crossbow to examine it again. "It's one of a matching pair that I made."

"For who?" Athos pressed.

"For myself."

Athos blinked.

Boucher set the crossbow down and grabbed his cane, limping around the side of the desk to stand directly in front of Athos, who wasn't sure what to make of the man's sequential denial and then confession concerning the weapon.

"There were twenty-seven thousand French citizens living in La Rochelle," Boucher said. "By the time your King had finished with us…there were only five thousand left. When the siege ended, all my weapons were confiscated and sent to a new home. _That's_ where this has come from."

Porthos furrowed his brow. "What new home?"

Boucher looked at him disdainfully. "The Cardinal sent them all to the Red Guard armory."

Athos's brows rose slightly and he looked to Porthos.

"Whoever used this," Boucher went on. "Came from your own side."

With that, he hobbled his way out. Athos let him go.

"The Red Guard's armory was reallocated to the Palace Guard," Porthos said.

"And one of them would have the time and access to plan an assassination in the church," Athos added.

Porthos scowled. "This means we have to talk with Rochefort."

"Unless the King has sent him out to search for Milady." Athos shook his head. Everyone's attentions were split, which only made them more vulnerable.

Harried footsteps sounded outside a moment before Etienne came rushing into the room. "Treville's been shot!"

Athos felt like the wind got knocked out of him. How many more blows could they take this day?

"How? Where?" Porthos demanded.

"He was in the city when it happened," Etienne replied. "There were no witnesses."

"Where is he now?" Athos asked.

"He was taken back to the Louvre."

Athos swept past Etienne and out the door. He had half a mind to saddle Savron and fly there, even though the palace wasn't that far removed from the garrison. Etienne's dragon, Astra, was even standing in the yard, having borne her rider here with the urgent news. But Athos deemed it would take just as much time to get his dragon as it would to make haste on foot, so he headed for the gate himself. Porthos and Etienne followed.

They arrived at the palace and immediately made their way toward the First Minister's apartments. Treville's door was hanging partially open and there were voices within. Athos didn't bother knocking before storming inside where he was relieved to find Treville sitting up in bed, bare chested as Doctor Lemay sewed up a furrow in his side. Aramis was there as well.

Treville flicked his gaze at them, his jaw tight as he endured the suturing.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked.

"The shot only grazed him," Lemay answered for him.

"He was lucky," Aramis added.

"What happened?" Porthos asked.

"The Queen personally asked me to retrieve the King's wedding present to Louise," Treville replied. "I didn't see what happened. A child playing in the street ran into me, which is the only reason I'm still alive—he knocked me off balance."

"This can't be coincidence," Porthos muttered.

"I have nothing to do with Princess Louise," Treville countered. "Spain gains nothing from my death."

"What about Milady?" Porthos said, looking at Athos.

"A shooting is rather mundane for her," he replied numbly.

"Why would she be behind this?" Treville asked.

Athos glanced at Aramis, who gave a subtle head shake; he apparently hadn't had a chance to tell Treville about d'Artagnan.

"I doubt she is," Athos answered. "But she's targeted d'Artagnan now. He's secure back at the garrison, but we were hoping you could convince the King to send Rochefort after her again."

Treville heaved a heavy sigh, then winced. "With an assassin loose, I'm not sure he would consent to that. Especially with the other witch hunter having recently disappeared."

Athos nodded grimly; he'd expected that. He canted his head at Aramis in signal to go back to his post outside the princess's chambers.

"The weapon that killed the archbishop is from the old Red Guard armory," he then told Treville.

Treville's brows rose sharply, then he scowled. "There are five hundred men serving in the Palace Guard."

"We'll see if we can't narrow it down," Athos replied, then excused himself to let Lemay finish up.

Porthos followed him out. "Where are you going?"

"To find out more about this gift. Whoever shot him knew where to find him."

"What about the Guard?"

"As you said, this can't be coincidence."

All they needed was one solid lead, one trail to take them to whoever was behind the assassination plot. Because the sooner they took care of that, the sooner they could get back to helping d'Artagnan.


	4. Chapter 4

Ayelet shuffled from foot to foot apprehensively outside the garrison building she knew her humans to be inside of. Something was going on, something bad. She'd seen the musketeers bring d'Artagnan in, unconscious, had seen the bruise on Constance's face as she'd hurried along with them. And then the other musketeers had come out and left, but there'd been no sign of d'Artagnan or Constance since.

Ayelet let out an unhappy bark, hoping to get their attention.

It didn't work.

Mewling to herself, she inched closer to the building, wondering if she could just nudge a door or window open… Something tickled her nose and she wrinkled it in response. The odor had an unpleasant tang, like tar. She scrunched her face up as she mulled it over. It reminded her of the stench of corrupted magic she'd tried to hunt down once.

Ayelet jerked upright in alarm. That witch must have struck again, and this time she'd targeted the d'Artagnans. But why wasn't anyone doing anything about it? The other musketeers had headed back to the palace, without their dragons.

Ayelet drew herself up. Fine, she'd do something about it. She had a scent, she could track it down.

But it would be nice to have help…

Flapping her wings, she lifted into the air and swooped over the wall between the garrison and dragon compound, veering down to land next to Falkor. She needed his help, she immediately told him, to save her rider from the witch.

Falkor eyed her hesitantly, and she went on to say that she had the scent, but she'd never hunted a witch on her own before whereas he had more experience.

After another moment's hesitation, Falkor agreed to help her. Ayelet led him back to the garrison so he could also get the scent of dark magic emanating from the building where d'Artagnan and Constance were. She even described it to him, not because he needed help identifying it, but she wanted to make sure she had the right one.

Savron abruptly swooped down to land behind them and asked what she was doing.

She replied that she was going to help her rider. She could tell the witch had done something to him.

Savron flicked a look at Falkor, then back to her and said the two of them shouldn't go alone. They should wait for their riders.

Ayelet snapped that her rider was out of commission and everyone else was busy with who knew what, but it couldn't be more important than this.

Savron warned her that she didn't have all the facts, but then Falkor interrupted that he had the scent and was ready.

Ayelet cast one last disappointed look at Savron before turning her back on him and following Falkor back into the skies.

.o.0.o.

Rochefort strode down the hallway toward Princess Louise's chambers where Aramis was standing guard outside.

"The chancellor will be arriving shortly," he said tersely. "Be ready to greet him and escort him inside."

Aramis's eyes narrowed a fraction at the order.

"Well?" Rochefort said. "What are you waiting for?"

"What about the princess?"

"She will be under my personal protection."

Aramis held his gaze defiantly for a moment longer. "You may be captain of the Palace Guard now, but what about your duties as a witch hunter? The longer Milady is at large, the worse it makes you look."

"Let me worry about that," Rochefort said snidely. "Besides, this obviously takes precedence." He stared Aramis down for another beat before the musketeer finally relented and headed off to do as told.

Rochefort waited until he was gone before retrieving the wooden suitcase he'd stashed behind the curtain a while ago, then knocked on Louise's door.

"Come in."

He opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it behind him, then carried the case over to the settee at the foot of the bed to set it down.

"What was all that commotion with the musketeer who attacked a maid?" Louise asked.

Rochefort smirked as he turned toward her. "The Musketeers have frequently found themselves the victims of a particularly nasty witch. Fortunate for us, as that splits their attentions and resources so you should have no trouble finishing the job I brought you here to do."

She gave him a simpering moue as she walked over and opened the case. Inside was the second crossbow of the pair he'd selected for this mission, and Louise picked it up with a familiarity that no true princess would have.

"The chancellor will enter the palace by the west gate," Rochefort told her. "You'll have all the time you need. The Musketeers will not be expecting an attack from behind them."

Just a few more pieces to remove, and Rochefort would be in the prime position to move up on the King's Council. Francesco's failure to eliminate Treville was unfortunate, but after the chancellor was taken care of, perhaps the assassin couple could circle back around to finish him off. If Rochefort played things right, he could very well be the next First Minister by the end of the year…

.o.0.o.

There was no room in the narrow streets for dragons, so Athos and Porthos took a pair of horses instead. As they rode up to the location where Treville had been shot, there was a man crouched on the ground throwing fresh sand over a rust colored stain in the dirt. Athos's jaw tightened, and he swiftly dismounted and headed for the studio that had been Treville's destination.

A young man with a bushy red mustache opened the door upon their knocking. "Yes?"

"I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. We need to speak to Monsieur Arnaud."

"I'm afraid he's unavailable—"

Porthos shouldered his way inside. "Are you unaware that the First Minister of France was shot right outside your door earlier?"

The young man's face blanched. "I- I was on an errand. I didn't know."

Porthos barreled into the next room. "Monsieur Arnaud?" He turned to the page. "Where is he?"

The young man scurried around to stand in front of them. "The master is painting. He left orders not to be disturbed."

And yet the workroom appeared empty. Except…Athos's eyes drifted past the page's shoulder to a darkened alcove and a pair of legs stretched out into the light. He brushed past the young man and knelt down next to whom he presumed was Monsieur Arnaud lying slumped against a canvas, his head craned back and eyes gazing vacantly at nothing.

The page staggered forward. "Is he dead? Master?"

Athos stood and turned around as Porthos went to fiddle with the open window.

"Whoever killed him came in through here," Porthos said. "And probably left the same way."

"The painting! It's gone!" the page suddenly exclaimed, going over to an empty display easel.

"What painting?" Porthos asked.

"A portrait of Princess Louise of Mantua. It was to be a wedding gift from the King."

Treville shot and the artist murdered over a painting? Something was going on here.

"Find the preparatory sketches," Athos said.

The young man darted off to go through his master's things, returning a few minutes later with a stack of pages crowded with charcoal skritches. Athos divided them in half, handing a bunch to Porthos to look through. The woman in the images looked…older.

"This isn't the woman we're guarding at the palace," Porthos said.

"No wonder they stopped Treville delivering the picture," Athos added. "The deception would have been uncovered the moment anyone saw it."

And even if the King himself hadn't been too afraid to leave his rooms lately, it'd been so many years since he'd seen his cousin, even he might have been fooled. The only one who knew better was the painter who'd gone to Mantua to sketch Louise back when the marriage arrangements had first begun.

"But if she isn't Princess Louise, then who is she?" Athos went on. "And why did they try to kill her this morning?"

"The archbishop was always the target," Porthos said. "And the fake Louise must have been in on the plan. But why assassinate a man of God?"

Athos could have kicked himself for being so blind. "The archbishop wasn't just a priest. He was a senior member of the King's Council."

"Like Treville," Porthos replied. "But he said it was the Queen who asked him to come out here."

"Perhaps someone encouraged her to send him," Athos mused. "We need to ask her. If this assassin is already in the palace, Treville could still be in danger."

"So is Chancellor Dupre," Porthos added. "He's on his way to the Louvre for the Council meeting. He thinks he's safe there."

Damn it. Athos tossed the sketches on the desk and hurried for the door.

.o.0.o.

Aramis adjusted his pistol on his belt as he made his way into the courtyard to await the chancellor's arrival. A few moments later, a red coach lumbered over the cobblestone through the gate. Aramis signaled to the driver where he could park the carriage, then reached to open the door once the coach had come to a full stop.

"Good afternoon, Chancellor," he greeted.

Dupre nodded as he stepped down.

"Get back inside!" Athos's bellowing voice resounded through the air as he and Porthos came riding through the gate at full haste. "Take cover!"

"The assassin's in the palace!" Porthos yelled.

Aramis whipped out his pistols and elbowed the chancellor back. "Inside!"

No sooner had the chancellor scrambled into the carriage that a bolt embedded itself in the door. Aramis whipped his gaze up to see where it'd come from. A single window was open looking out on the courtyard, and a head of curls was barely seen behind the sill.

"Up there!" He raised his pistol and fired off a shot. The head ducked down a split second before the ball broke through the window pane.

"Go!" Athos shouted.

He and Porthos had already dismounted and were running toward the coach, so Aramis checked the window before barreling for the palace. He heard more shots echoing behind him but couldn't give thought to that now as he tore through the palace to intercept the assassin. As he reached the wing where the bolt had come from, he saw a bushel of skirts flying around the corner down the hall. Was that…Princess Louise?

She seemed to know where she was going, taking a stairwell down to the cellars and tunnels that would lead out of the palace. Aramis scrambled down the steps, skidding to a stop at the bottom when he did, indeed, find Louise standing on the other side of a barred gate.

"Princess…" What the hell was going on?

"Drop your weapons," she demanded, pointing a pistol at him. "All of them."

Aramis gritted his teeth as one by one, he slowly let his pistols and sword clatter to the ground. "Who are you?"

She smirked. "I'm afraid the real Princess Louise never even made it out of Lombardy."

"You mean you killed her?"

She huffed. "But on the positive side, I saved her from a dreadful marriage."

Aramis eyed the door, but she seemed to guess his intention and held up the key with a simpering moue.

"You've no idea how much planning went into getting me inside the Louvre," she said.

"Who helped you?"

She smiled slyly at him and turned to leave, only for the second door to slam shut with an aged creak, Athos and Porthos on the other side. She whipped her pistol up toward them.

"Whoever you are, this is over," Athos said. "You must know that."

She hesitated for a beat before relinquishing her aim.

"Key," Porthos prompted, and she slowly moved forward to pass both the key and her weapon through the bars. Then Porthos unlocked the gate and moved inside to seize her by the arm. They headed back toward Aramis and unlocked that gate as well.

"Who hired you?" Porthos asked.

She didn't respond.

"Whoever hired you will likely want to see you silenced now that you've been captured," Athos pointed out mildly.

The woman merely shrugged. She was cold as steel, Aramis had to give her that.

"If yer hoping for your accomplice to rescue you," Porthos put in, "he's dead."

At that she faltered.

"Francesco?" Aramis checked.

Porthos gave a gruff nod.

Louise—or not Louise—looked almost shaken at that. "Rochefort," she said. "He supplied the weaponry and identified the targets."

Aramis's brows sharply and he exchanged equally stupefied looks with Athos and Porthos. Not that they didn't believe Rochefort was capable, but treason like this?

"Why?" Athos asked.

"Isn't it obvious? He's a Spanish spy."

A Spanish spy…of course. Aramis thought back to that very first mission Rochefort had come back to France with. Nothing about what had happened had sat well with him, and now he knew why.

Louise looked smug. "As the Cardinal's man, Madrid knew he would be perfectly placed on his return to France. The spy-master Vargas handled it personally."

"The archbishop. The chancellor," Porthos muttered. "He's trying to kill his way to the top."

"He's determined to remove any rival for the King's trust and affection," she confirmed.

"We must see the King at once," Athos said, taking her other arm and starting toward the stairwell.

The creak of the second gate had them all turning their heads, and a bolt zinged through the air to strike Louise dead center in the chest. She let out a startled gasp, then a ragged, choking breath as she went limp in Athos's and Porthos's arms.

Aramis whipped up his pistol toward the cloaked figure in the shadows, but they were off and running a split second after the shot had been fired. Aramis sprinted for the gate, but it'd been locked again.

"The key!" he shouted.

Porthos came running up behind him and frantically shoved the key in the lock to get it open, but by the time he had, the killer was long gone.

"Damn it!" Aramis cursed and whirled back to Louise. She was lying half in Athos's arms, eyes wide open and vacant.

Athos looked up, expression grim. Their one piece of evidence against Rochefort was gone. Aramis had no doubt that figure in the shadows had been the Comte himself, but they had no way to prove it.

"What do we do now?" Porthos asked.

Athos extricated his arm from Louise and stood up. "We'll deal with this later. Right now d'Artagnan needs us."


	5. Chapter 5

D'Artagnan couldn't help but fidget against the ropes binding his wrists behind the chair, and each time he had to will himself to stop. He needed to be restrained, even though it grated on his instincts and steeped his soul in guilt and despair. His mind couldn't help wondering what if the others didn't find Milady? What if they would be forced to lock him up and throw away the key?

"Are you hungry?" Constance asked.

He was, actually, but then he realized that he couldn't exactly be untied to feed himself, and there was no way he was going to consent to Constance feeding him like an infant. So he sullenly shook his head no and looked away. Constance didn't say anything else, but the tension between them was palpable. D'Artagnan wanted to tell her to go but knew she wouldn't. Her devotion was little comfort at the moment, though, considering it could only endanger her.

He realized he was squirming in his bonds again and tried to stop. But his hands didn't still. They kept working against the ropes, twisting and wriggling in an effort to slip free of the knots. D'Artagnan's eyes widened in horror as he discovered he couldn't make himself stop.

He snapped his gaze to Constance and opened his mouth to warn her…but no sound came out. He tried again, tried to work up at least a scream or sound of distress. Her back was turned as she stood over the work table across the room.

No…

His hands finally wormed out of the ropes and his body slowly stood. D'Artagnan tried to fight with everything he had as he took one lumbering step forward, then another.

Constance finally turned around, her eyes going wide. D'Artagnan couldn't even yell at her to run. Not that it mattered, because he'd sidestepped to put himself between her and the door.

Constance spun around and snatched his sword up off the table where his weapons belt lay. "D'Artagnan?" she said tremulously, holding the blade up between them.

He still couldn't speak, could only watch as his body lurched forward to attack her. Constance scrambled away, sword still raised. D'Artagnan wanted to scream at her to just run him through; he'd rather die than hurt her.

He lunged again and Constance retreated.

"Help!" she yelled.

He charged again.

.o.0.o.

Ayelet followed Falkor through the air above the city. She'd lost the scent of magic several times but had faintly picked it up again. She hoped Falkor was having a better time than her. He at least appeared to be, flying in concentric circles as though narrowing in on his target.

Then Ayelet caught a whiff of what smelled like burnt wood and tar, a scent not common in the city. Plus it had that tainted tang she recognized as black magic. They were getting close.

Ayelet spotted a figure in a black cloak on a high, flat rooftop and immediately recognized the witch Milady. She was alone on the roof, manipulating a clay doll in her hands.

Falkor let out a mighty roar and swooped down toward her. She staggered backward in fright, dropping the doll, then spun and ran for the door, barreling inside before the dragons reached her. Ayelet screeched in frustration as she scrabbled at the edge of the building. The district was crowded with homes built close together and narrow streets between them. The dragons would have to rip the place apart to find the rat in her nest.

Something Falkor was apparently prepared to do because his belly was beginning to glow as he grabbed the top of the roof access and angled his head toward the stairwell.

Ayelet shouted at him to stop.

He cut off his fire with an irritated gargle and shot her a sharp look.

They couldn't risk hurting innocents by setting fire to the entire building, she pointed out.

Falkor's belly was still alight, but after a moment he grudgingly snuffed out his flame and wrenched away from the door. The witch would get away, he said tersely.

Ayelet knew that, and her heart clenched with worry for her rider. But she also knew d'Artagnan wouldn't want her to destroy a city block trying to help him.

Her gaze flitted over the doll the witch had dropped. It reeked of the same dark magic. Maybe they didn't need the witch to stop the spell, only the source of it. Ayelet snatched the poppet up in her talons and lifted into the air, turning to fly back to the garrison.

She and Falkor arrived just as d'Artagnan's friends did from whatever else they had been focusing their time on. Ayelet squawked to get their attention and dropped the clay doll on the ground at their feet.

"What is this?" Aramis asked, picking it up.

She scrunched her face up. How to tell them she suspected that was the instrument the witch had been using to hurt her rider?

"Hey, wasn't d'Artagnan wearing a pin like that this morning?" Porthos spoke up, pointing to a small wooden fleur-de-lis on the poppet.

Ayelet straightened sharply. She was _right_.

"Athos!" another musketeer called as he came hurrying out of a building, his expression tight. "D'Artagnan got free and attacked Constance."

Everyone stiffened in alarm and Ayelet went rigid with fear. Oh no…

"She's all right," the musketeer quickly assured them. "We restrained him again. But…" He grimaced and looked to Athos. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I think I know," Athos said grimly and reached to take the clay doll from Aramis.

With that, the musketeers all headed inside, leaving Ayelet to wait impatiently for news of her beloved humans.

.o.0.o.

Constance stood against the back wall, arms hugging herself tightly. She knew d'Artagnan wasn't in control of his actions, but she was still shaken by what had occurred—her husband trying to kill her. Her split lip reminded her of the sudden violence every time she opened her mouth to speak or drink. This witch Milady had a long reach. How easily she'd gotten to each of them over the past few months. And they'd been helpless every time. What would happen when she was done playing her games and came to finally finish them off for good? How would they possibly stand against her? And what of d'Artagnan in the meantime? They couldn't keep him tied up indefinitely…

The door opened and the others swiftly filed inside. Constance straightened. If they were back, then maybe that meant the assassin problem was taken care of and now they could try to help d'Artagnan…

Athos immediately went to where d'Artagnan was tied to the chair and grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulling it taut. "Where did you get this pin?" he asked.

D'Artagnan furrowed his brow in confusion and glanced down at the pin on his coat. "It was a gift from Constance."

Constance frowned. "I didn't give you any pin."

He blinked at her. "But…I found it in the pocket of my cloak this morning. I thought you…"

"Milady," Athos finished brusquely and held out a small clay doll that was wearing an identical miniature of the same pin.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "You found her?"

"No, but it seems your dragon did." Athos reached out and plucked the pin off d'Artagnan's chest.

D'Artagnan looked around at them uncertainly. "You think that's all it takes?"

"One way to find out." Athos nodded to Porthos, who went around behind d'Artagnan to untie him.

"Stay back, Constance," d'Artagnan warned.

To her shame, she hadn't been ready to move forward and embrace him.

The ropes fell away, and d'Artagnan slowly stood up, rubbing his wrists absentmindedly. "I don't know if I can be trusted…" he said.

"Should we burn the doll and pins?" Constance asked, looking at Aramis. "Like we did the poppet that poisoned my father?"

"That is probably prudent," he agreed. "If you're comfortable with that," he added toward d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan's throat bobbed but he nodded. "I want to be absolutely sure I won't hurt anyone again."

They started to head outside, d'Artagnan faltering in order to give Constance a wide berth. He seemed fine, though.

Ayelet scampered over to them the moment they emerged into the yard, going straight for d'Artagnan and snuffling her snout through his hair. He reached up to give her a half-hearted pat.

"I heard you've been doing some witch hunting of your own?" he asked.

She bobbed her head with enthusiastic pride, then canted her head worriedly at him. He still seemed himself.

"Ayelet," Aramis said, "we need you to burn the witch's tokens."

Athos moved further into the yard and set the pin and doll on the ground, then backed away. The dragon flicked another concerned look at her rider before turning around and kindling her inner fire. Lowering her head to the ground, she let out a stream of flame that swept over the tokens, incinerating them nearly instantly.

Constance tensed and watched d'Artagnan carefully, as did everyone else. But nothing bad happened to him as a result.

He stood with his hands tucked up under his armpits as Ayelet's fire tempered out and all that remained was a blackened spot on the ground. "How- how can we be sure?" he said.

"I've seen her magic in action before," Athos replied. "Neutralizing the focusing objects breaks the curse."

Aramis moved closer and clapped a firm hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "You're fine now."

D'Artagnan nodded absently, though he didn't look quite convinced. "What about the assassin?"

"Taken care of," Porthos answered.

"And the rest we'll fill you in on later," Athos interjected, shooting a glance at Constance.

She nodded and finally took a step toward her husband. "Come on, let's go home."

He didn't shy away from her as she drew near, but he was rigid when she reached out to take his arm to steer him home. And on the way, he still wouldn't look at her.

"I'm sorry," he said at the gate to the compound, voice low and broken.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she insisted. "It wasn't you."

He looked up, eyes wavering with devastation, and lifted a hand toward her face. She tried very hard not to flinch away as his thumb brushed her chin. But there must have been a reflexive reaction in her eyes, because his expression pinched and he dropped his arm back to his side.

Constance could see him closing off, so she lashed her hand out to snatch his back. "It might take some time to heal, but this _will_." She reached up to cup his cheek, drawing his eyes to hers so he could see she meant it. Rising onto her tiptoes, she pressed the uninjured corner of her mouth to his. "Don't let Milady win," she whispered.

D'Artagnan's arms came up to enfold her, and Constance sank into his embrace. Her heart constricted at the anguish Milady had caused, but she was determined not to let the witch destroy them. They would get through this. Together.

.o.0.o.

Athos stood before the King to deliver his report, Rochefort standing a mere few feet to his left. Athos had to refrain from simply blurting out that he was a Spanish spy. He had no proof, now that the assassins were dead.

"Assassins at large in my own palace," Louis raged. "Archbishop Jacqueme dead. The Duc de Barville missing. And yet another musketeer compromised by the witch Milady!"

"The danger is over, Your Majesty," Rochefort calmly replied. "The assassins are dead. But, sadly, so is your treaty."

"Poor Louise," Louis lamented.

"We will find who hired these assassins," Athos put in, shooting Rochefort a glacial look. The spy didn't even blink.

Louis shook his head emphatically. "I want every musketeer removed from the palace. Since Milady continues to target all of you, you can handle hunting her down. I want that to be your top priority. And, Athos, do not come back until you've finally succeeded."

Athos blinked, words failing him at the unexpected declaration. "Your Majesty…we've already made significant inroads on the investigation into the assassins. I'm sure with a little more time—"

"Rochefort can take it from here," Louis cut him off tersely. "And the Palace Guard will handle my protection."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Rochefort canted a smug look at Athos before heading after him.

Athos gritted his teeth in frustration. He was not going to let Rochefort get away with this. Somehow, he would find proof that the Comte was a Spanish spy. But after he dealt with his vicious ex-wife.

One enemy at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME
> 
> The battle against Milady comes to a head when she captures Aramis and uses dark magic to bind his soul and turn him into her own personal black knight.


End file.
